


Corroborate

by GreyPezzola



Series: A Study in Synonyms [14]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, If you are looking for something that centers anything but Brosca sorry y'all, i will update tags as we go along, there are depictions of violence but it is super vague
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2018-11-17 23:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11278926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyPezzola/pseuds/GreyPezzola
Summary: Varric prefers telling stories that he’s lived rather than ones he’s overheard, even if those who had told him had actually been there. Despite the fact he's telling a story about the Hero of Fereldan, he's gathered a good crowd this time.  He's pleasantly surprised to see a fellow dwarf sitting in the periphery and while he can usually spot a surface dwarf from a mile away this one is harder to place.  Her face is obscured and she is clearly listening to his tale as her fingers tap against her drink.  Everyone's a critic, but Brosca doesn't seem to mind his creative freedoms too much.





	1. Caricature

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to that one neckbeard who decided he had to interrupt every five minutes during my latest lecture. Fuck you, my dude.

“You’ve got to remember, the humans know nothing about Orzammar.  So Brosca being asked to take part in the proving was unprecedented, not that her companions knew that.” Despite the fact he isn't telling a story of the Champion, he's gathered a good crowd this time.  Varric prefers telling stories that he’s lived rather than ones he’s overheard, even if those who had told him had actually been there. That Varick, they’d chuckled at the coincidence of their names, had been so adamant about every detail that Varric figured he was being told roughly the truth.  Thus the story he’s spinning tonight has only modest embellishments.  “Imagine the next day when she shows up, full armor, face glittering behind all her jewelry—”

“Wait, what does that have to do with anything?” a man with possibly the worst beard he’s ever seen interrupts him.

“Well in dwarva culture, we get a piercing for every accomplishment or significant battle we win.  The standards can be hazy, but if you see a dwarf with lots of piercings, I’d think twice about insulting their ancestors or challenging them to a fight.”

He turns back to the crowd, but the man cuts him off short again.  “How’d you get yours then?”

Varric chuckles, “That’s another story for another evening and I promise I’ve got better stories.  Anyway, three humans, a mabari, and Brosca enter the Proving Grounds, ready for anything…”

 

 

Brosca’s done this before. There’s nothing different except this time she gets to use her own weapons, wear her own armor, and everyone will know they are fighting a casteless.  If she hadn’t done this before she would expect them to not take her seriously, but she knows they will remember her victory despite the time passed and they will not be inclined to lose, gracefully or not.

She finds the Proving Master, a different man than the one she had met what felt like a lifetime ago.  “I’m here as Harrowmont’s champion,” she says evenly.

He takes one look at her and, as soon as he sees her brand, scoffs.  “Right.  What do you take me for? A nug humping fool?”

She doesn’t let his reaction phase her, instead, she calmly repeats herself and crosses her arms in front of her.  “I’m Brosca of the Grey Wardens, I am here on behalf of Lord Harrowmont to serve as his champion.”

She then taps her three fingers against her bicep.  He goes to make another snide comment and then notices her missing finger as they tap, tap,..  tap.  Tap, tap,..  tap.  He clears his throat, “Right we’ll just call you the Grey Warden and spare us all the embarrassment.  I’m sure you remember where to prepare.”

Brosca inclines her head and smiles joylessly.  Then she uncrosses her arms and turns on her heel and walks away.  Alistair follows her easily and touches her shoulder lightly.  “Sigyn, are you sure about this?”

“Alistair, I’ve beat this once before with armor too heavy for me.  I’ll be fine.” Her tone is terse, but she accepts the touch and slows her pace.

“Your ability to win this is not what I am worried about.”  He sighs.

“You are human; your ancestors mean nug shit.” She says flatly 

“For once,” now that causes a small smile to cross her face, “May I at least—”  Alistair reaches out and strokes down her arm to her bare forearms,  “May I bind your arms? It’s not a lot and I know there’s a culture thing I’m not getting.  But I am worried and it would help me feel better.”

Brosca relents and Sigyn relaxes slightly into his touch.  They find a secluded corner where once she and Leske had whispered in quiet panic about how they were going to solve this latest problem of Beraht’s.  But this time instead of Leske telling her that she can and had to do this or they were down another finger if not dead, it’s Alistair who gives encouraging words.  He kneels down in front of her and slowly starts to wrap her hands with a roll of cloth bandages he’s been holding onto for just this purpose.  He starts by pressing a kiss to her palm, putting the end of the bandage across it.

Alistair looks up at her, “You may not believe in the Chant of Light, but may I say a blessing once taught to me?”

She cocks her head and thinks about it.  Sigyn doesn’t believe, but he does.  “Sure.”

Alistair smiles and starts to wrap her hands.  “This may not work as well as you are missing a finger, but—,” he loops the roll around her thumb.

“Maker keep you and guide you in your trials ahead,” he wraps the roll three times around her wrist, then says as he does the same across her palm.  “Let these hands act as You would.”  

“May they act with integrity,” he wraps the cloth down around her wrist once and then up and around her pointer finger.  He kisses the pad of her finger before continuing, “With tenacity,” down, around her wrist, up, around her ring finger, kiss.  “With diligence,” down, around her pinky, kiss.  He pauses in his wrapping, says “With perseverance”, and kisses the knuckle of her missing middle finger.  “And with humility,” down, around her thumb again, locking the bandage, kiss.  Then Alistair wraps the cloth up over her knuckles, once, twice, thrice, “Know that these hands to more than take, but give.”

“And know that these hands work tirelessly,” one wrap down her palm, “earnestly,” down and over the back of her thumb, “continuously”, around her wrist, “swiftly”, down her forearm, “carefully” down to her elbow.  Then he starts to wind his way back up her arm, “and for You,” up, “for You,” up, “for You.”  He locks the bandage one more time around her wrist before cutting if off the excess.

Alistair kisses her knuckles before moving to the other hand, starting once again by kissing her palm.  “But guide these hand to balance these things.” Thrice around her wrist, “Let these hands act as Yours would.”

“With temperance,” up around pointer finger, kiss, “with patience”, down, wrist, up, middle finger, kiss, “with forbearance” down, wrist, up, ring finger, kiss, “with grace,” down, wrist, up, pinky finger, kiss, “and with mercy” down, around her thumb again, locking the bandage, kiss.  He wraps the cloth over her knuckles, “Know that these hands must give and take.”

Then Alistair starts to wrap the cloth down her palm to her arm, “But that these hands work kindly, joyfully, deftly, and beautifully,” he reaches her elbow and then starts to make his way back up her arm, “for You, for You, for You.” Once he locks the bandage around her wrist and cuts it off, he kisses her knuckles as he had before.  There is a moment of quiet where he kneels in front of her, her hands clasped in his own, and they just look at each other.  His expression is unreadable and she knows she’s trying not to betray how she’s feeling.  So Sigyn squeezes his hands, removes one of her own from his grip, and presses two fingers against his pulse.  Another moment where they just breathe and she feels the beautifully alive and steady beat of his heart under her fingers.

Before any of the anxiety that she is feeling can crawl its way out of her throat, she murmurs “Thank you, salroka.  I’ll see you,” and the moment ends.

 

 

“A dwarf and a human? No shit, really” the same man from before heckles.

Varric contains his sigh at the interruption to the flow of his story; he’s heard this question enough times to have the quick quip ready.  “Yes.  Some dwarves will stoop low enough, if you pardon the figure of speech, to be with a human.  Shocking, I know.” 

His crowd has gained a few listeners and he pleasantly surprised to see a fellow dwarf sitting in the periphery.  Usually, he can spot a surface dwarf from a mile away, but this one is harder to place.  Her face is obscured so he can’t see if she has any tattoos, but nevertheless, she is clearly listening to his tale.  “Now, where was I?”

 

 

Brosca wasn’t surprised to find that she had been put in the first round of fighting.  She was aware as to how these things went, get the embarrassment of a champion beaten early on and move onto the more proper fights.  The rounds of two opponents in, one out, the victor staying to continue.  She figures it’s partially to keep things interesting, partially to show who’s ancestors were truly favored, and partially to eliminate the weak early on.

“The Grey Warden for Lord Harrowmont,” announces the Proving Master.  Brosca had braided back her hair so her brand was clearly shown.  While she may have been introduced as the grey warden, with her mark standing prominently against her skin, it is clear exactly who and what she is.  So when she faces her first opponents, a pair of twins with matching piercings marking a number of impressive victories, Brosca is almost pleased with the matching looks of disgust on their faces.  

“Could Harrowmont do no better?” says one. 

“What an insult to our ancestors,” replies the other.

“At least this will be quick.” says the first.

Brosca steadies her grip on her daggers, their weight familiar and soothing, and rolls her shoulders.  Softly, but firmly she says, “Yes, it will be.”

The match begins.  She’s quick, but they are coordinated.  However, she’s learned from her companions and from consistently fighting those much larger than her.  It hurts to bodily check the brother like she had seen Alistair do countless times, but the smooth reversal of a lunge from the sister is a credit to Leliana.  The choke hold is her own, but she is much better at luring the brother by dragging the sister thanks to the tussles she and her dog have had.  When the brother rushes at the two of them, she releases the hold and shoves the two siblings together.  The rapid series of blows is the result of many hours of practice with and against Zevran.

When the siblings collapse after she jabs them both in the neck like Wynne had once shown her, Sigyn’s out of breath and sore from the solid blows that the two had been able to land on her.

Brosca stands above them, chest heaving, blood oozing from a scrape, and the match is called.  Before the two can be carried away, she crouches down and takes her prize — a nose ring from him and an earring from her are added to her collection.  She’ll wash off the blood later, but at least the twins will no longer be as able to match quite as well, not unless they get very lucky with their scarring.

Brosca goes to the edge of the ring; a new contestant will be arriving soon.  Alistair is sitting, still tall enough to see over the wall into the ring, worrying his lip between his teeth and his rune between his fingers.  He stands to meet her at the barrier.

“Sigyn, I—” there is a tap to his sternum and he nods. She pulls him down by the front of his armor with hand. The kiss is quick, hard, and fierce, but when she pulls away, Sigyn smiles at him.

“You quite finished, grey warden?” someone asks.  Sigyn lets go of Alistair and holds out her hand.  She drops the two bloodied pieces of jewelry into his palm.  He lifts his eyebrows when he realizes what he’s been given but returns her nod.

“Yes, I am ready,” she says as her face hardens. She turns away from Alistair and rolls her shoulders as she turns back into the ring.  In the middle of the floor is a Silent Sister.  She inclines her head and says nothing, Brosca returns the gesture, hands resting on her daggers.  Then it starts.

There are different techniques when fighting just the one and Brosca quickly realizes she is easily outmatched.  Each stab and hit she manages to get on the Sister only seem to make her hit harder and faster.  Even Leliana’s most misleading moves do nothing to fool the Sister.  She brings down her sword and Sigyn cries out in pain, but she manages to stumble away despite the blow to her head.  She darts away, the Sister on her heels; she throws a dagger which the Sister easily dodges.  But Brosca takes the moment it buys her to pull her bow off her back, turn on her heel, and wrap the bow around the Sister’s neck.  She uses the Sister’s momentum and a sharp wrench of her bow, the wood creaks as it bends— the Sister falls heavily.

Brosca kicks her sword away and then kicks the Sister over, pulling her bow down over her shoulder.  It won’t pin her for long, so she puts a knee to the Sister’s chest and draws another dagger.  The Sister bucks and almost manages to throw her, but Brosca throws her weight. One more struggle, but then her blade digs firmly into the Sister’s neck.

The match is called.

The Sister makes no sound, doesn’t flinch, but merely glares at Brosca pulls out her lip ring.  It’s not her usual style, taking the time to unclasp the jewelry, but Sigyn figures the Sister has probably experienced enough pain near her mouth.  Then she stands, inclines her head to the still glaring woman, and walks back to where Alistair is looking on.  She hands him the lip ring and once again he goes to say something.  But before he can get any words out the proving master comes to them, carrying Sigyn’s bow and thrown dagger.

“The next one is a team match. Who are on your team?” he asks, glaring at Alistair.

“Give me a moment to retrieve them,” she says coolly. “I was unsure I would need them.”

“Don’t take too long,” he says and turns.

Brosca exits the ring and Alistair finally gets to say something. “Sigyn, are you alright?”

She shrugs, “Don’t have the time to figure that out.” she says as they make their way through the halls.

“Sigyn,” he stops walking to which she pays no heed, “Stop.”

He’s never told her to stop in that tone of voice.  She falters.

“Alistair, I—”

“I know this place is miserable for you, but your head is bleeding,” he states and she stills.  He goes over to her, “Let Wynne at least stop the bleeding then you can gather the others.”

“I just want to get this over with,” Sigyn’s admission is soft and pained.  Alistair puts an arm around her and she follows his lead.

“Why couldn’t I have done this for you then?” he asks as they make their way to the quiet corner Wynne has taken refuge in.

“It’s a dwarva tradition, your ancestors don’t apply here.”

“But your ancestors—”

“Are still dwarva, thus more relevant than yours.” 

“For once,” he sighs.

“For once,” she repeats with a soft chuckle.

 

 

“Wait, what’s so important about this Alistair fellow’s ancestors.” This man and his awful beard seem to be hell bent on ruining the flow of Varric’s story.  But before Varric can interject with a quip or explanation, the dwarf sitting at the fringes of the crowd speaks.

“Nothing in regard to this story. They were human.  Even a casteless ancestor’s like mine are worth more than any human’s,” she has a low voice and as she turns to face the man, Varric can see the dark tattoo underneath her eye that brands her.  “Even a surfacer's is better than yours.”

“You have no idea what my ancestors have done!” the pathetically bearded man snaps back.

Varric clears his throat and gives the dwarf a look.  This man isn’t worth the time.  She smiles humorlessly, “Neither do I and yet…” She holds herself in a deceptively loose manner, he notices, but he can see the glitter of a few pieces of jewelry underneath her hood.  Carta, then. “But I do believe he was telling a story.”  Varric inclines his head and she turns back to her steaming drink.

 

 

Wynne tsks at the wound, but Alistair catches the fond smile as Sigyn closes her eyes and relaxes into her touch.  “How many more rounds do you have?” she asks.

“As little as one, maybe three.” Sigyn murmurs, “But the next part involves teams.”

“Do you want me to join you?” Wynne offers, but Sigyn shakes her head.  They all know how Wynne feels about what she views as unnecessary violence.

“I’m already an embarrassment to this fight.  I cannot handle any more scorn."

“I can’t say I understand, but if you are sure.”

“I am.  I’ve done this before, I can do it again.”  Alistair and Wynne frown at each other over her head.

“I think I will watch the next few rounds.” Wynne states and Sigyn cracks open an eye. 

“No outside interference.” she says.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Wynne says.

“Still not entirely sure what that means as someone who is new to dreaming.” And with that, the wound is as healed as it’s going to get.  She says her thanks and then goes on her way as Alistair hangs back to talk with Wynne.

 

 

“Now what Brosca said to the two dwarves to get them to fight, I will never know and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know,” Varric says, steepling his hands.  His crowd doesn’t seem too perturbed at the loss of those interactions, Brosca’s diplomacy was hardly why she was a legend.  Although, anyone who could manage to handle Hawke at her worst, that is with Aveline and himself being the best and worst influences on her, respectively, during one of those high society functions, should get some praise for their skill.  Brosca had been soft-spoken and reserved, just as he had been lead to believe, not one to tell tales of her exploits.  She had had a soft smile and Varric could have sworn he could see the secrets she held behind her golden teeth.  But regardless, aside from that one human man who won’t stop interrupting the story to ask inane, pace breaking questions, all seem entranced by his retelling of just her battles and their interludes.

He’d asked Isabela once if the romance was truly worth the energy it took to spin.  She had laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders and told him something along the lines of “It makes people want more, drink or story, take your pick.”

The only person who doesn’t seem enchanted by his tale was the dwarf woman.  She listens intensely, but every so often she grimaces or rolls her eyes.  However, she hasn’t moved from her seat and other than her one interjection to the man, she does not interrupt, so Varric figures he must be at least entertaining enough.  It’s not uncommon for the Hero of Fereldan to be an unpopular figure amongst Carta dwarves, she did do a number on the organization in Dust Town.

“While she had convinced them to enter the ring with her, convincing them to actually work with a brand was an entirely different affair.”  So Varric spins the rest of his story, only pausing to take a quick sip of his drink when his throat runs dry because he’s found the man with the dead animal of a beard will take any opportunity to ask questions.  The crowd holds their breath as he describes the brutal fights between Brosca, her reluctant team, and her formidable opponents.  It’s only at the end when he is done describing her victory, the victory kiss between her and Alistair, and after the crowd has dispersed that Varric realized that he still has an audience.

The dwarven woman sits, her posture still loose and promising all sorts of danger, and watches him, her fingers tapping lightly on her mug.  Varric drinks the last few swallows in his cup, clears his throat, and then makes his way over to her.  She smiles slowly at him as he approaches her, but does not change her posture.

He gestures to the seat next to her and she nods, “Varric Tethras, at your service.”  He says.  It might not be his smoothest opening line, but if she’s paid attention to his story at all, she should know just how good he is with his words

“Charmed, I’m sure.” she replies evenly, “You are quite the storyteller and author if you truly are who you say you are.”

“We’re only as good as our word.” he grins and her smile widens just that much more.

“Let me buy you a drink.” she says, “What is your fancy?”

“I’ll have whatever you are having,” he says and she chuckles.  She gestures to the man behind the bar and holds up two fingers.  “What brings you here, stranger?”

“Business.” she takes a long pull from her drink.  If Varric were to write her, her tones wouldn’t quite be honeyed, as she seems to be relatively sincere, but he’d have trouble coming up with a better term for her voice.  Between her low tones and the gold lip ring, he almost wishes he could describe her as such just for the pure cliche of it. “And you?”

“Avoiding business.”

“Ah yes, if the stories serve true, you have quite a bit of business to avoid.” The man from behind the bar comes up to them and hands them each a steaming mug.  She nods her thanks and hands over a few coin from a purse that seems very well lined.

“A fan, then?”

“I suppose; you do take a lot of creative freedom.” she says, wrapping her hands around the new mug, her fingers going back to tapping.

He lets out a laugh, “And how would you know?”

“Well, I happen to know that Brosca’s dog has never seen Orzammar.” she shrugs, “She has no desire to put her dog in that kind of danger or distress.”

“And you’ve met her, I take it?”

“You could say that.” her fingers keep tapping.  It isn’t the first time he’s met someone who’s claimed to know a figure in his tales, but he’s yet to have met someone who actually has.  Maybe this woman is more trouble than she’s worth, or not trouble enough.

He takes a drink and pulls a face.  “Andraste’s tits, this is tea!” She nods, “Who drinks tea at a tavern?"

“You didn’t ask what I was having, only that you wanted what I was having.” she says with a wry smile.

“I don’t think I caught your name.” he says instead of responding to her claim.

“You didn’t.” her smile doesn’t falter. “I didn’t think it was necessary, Master Tethras.”

He shudders at the title, “Varric is fine.  But why’s that?”

Her fingers don’t stop tapping and her smile becomes teasing. “You tell me.” They sit there for a moment while he regards her and her fingers tap, tap,..  tap.  Tap, tap,..  tap. Tap, tap,..  tap.  Tap, tap,..  tap.

“Andraste’s tits...” She’s missing her middle finger on her right hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay lovelies, before we get too deep into this mess, I am going to reiterate that both Varric and Sigyn are unreliable narrators. But this also allows for me to rewrite some shit because I have so many issues with how Orzammar was handled in general.
> 
> Notes about the Provings:
> 
> Canon states that the Provings are done to show which ancestors are favored, right? So why the hell would anyone but a dwarf partake as their ancestors, as Sigyn just said, are worth nug shit. Like I know they are picking a champion to represent their champion, but there's evidence that dwarves think themselves must superior to other races. While I didn't think it made a hell of a lot of sense that higher-caste dwarves would be willing to fight with a casteless, it felt worse to have anyone in my party while playing through. I don't know why I couldn't fight with Shale because she at least made sense.
> 
> I honestly just lost steam to write about the Provings, but I wanted to have Varric retell it as a way to get two of my favorite dwarves to talk to each other. (Who am I fucking kidding? Basically all the dwarves are my favorite.)


	2. Canard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve heard some adventures and you’ve heard some tales.” the Hero of Fereldan says, “I didn’t do all you’ve heard.”
> 
> “No doubt. Neither has Hawke, but that isn’t the point of figures like you two. It’s the larger than life, beat the provings twice, wipe out an entire branch of the Carta, and crown a new king that people want to hear.”
> 
> “As I said, you take a lot of creative freedoms,” she says.
> 
> “So tell me Brosca, what did I get wrong?” she raises a brow at his words. It turns out, it's a lot more than Varric thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been six months practically to the day since I started this, but here's we are! Finally. I graduated college in June and started working full time shortly thereafter. College busy and a 9-5 job busy are two very different critters and leaves a lot less time or more importantly energy to write.

“Who the fuck did I meet in Kirkwall?” Varric asks.  “She was introduced as Brosca to the Viscount.”

“Did they mention her first name?”  His answer is apparent on his face and she nods her head.  “Rica is my sister.  We discovered that one branded dwarf is just as good as another both in Orzammar and on the surface.”

“You look nothing alike.”  They don’t.  The Brosca he had met had been fair with vibrant red hair and golden teeth, this Brosca was brown with dark hair and eyes and the gold she wore was all jewelry.  Her smile becomes a bit more friendly at his incredulous look and she chuckles.  “It surprised us too that we could be confused.”

He shrugs and takes another sip of his tea.  He wrinkles his nose at the taste, “She also didn’t drink.”

“Our mam fell into a bottle and never to climbed back out.  Tried a few times to no success, so we avoid the bottle entirely.”  Varric isn’t entirely sure what to say in response to that.

Having lived alongside a living legend and seem their journey to being a hero, the knowledge that one’s heroes are, in fact, fairly average people has been reaffirmed for Varric many, many times.  Maker knows he’s seen Hawke piss drunk, bleeding, or both enough times for any potential glorification to be purely left to his storytelling.  Thus Varric doesn’t fluster easily and isn’t one for hero worship, yet this moment is surreal.  The hero of Fereldan is sitting next to him, they are drinking tea because her mother is a drunkard, and she’s being open about her past with him.  Every source he has met has told him that while she was capable of astonishing feats, she’s known for being withdrawn at best.

And she’s still smiling although it feels like a hollow thing, “No need to pity me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He replies, “I’ve heard enough of your adventures, you don’t need it.”  Brosca’s smile returns, but this time it seems earnest like she’s pleased with his answer.

“You’ve heard some adventures and you’ve heard some tales.” she says, “I didn’t do all you’ve heard.”

“No doubt.  Neither has Hawke, but that isn’t the point of figures like you two.  It’s the larger than life, beat the provings twice, wipe out an entire branch of the Carta, and crown a new king that people want to hear.”

“As I said, you take a lot of creative freedoms,” she says.

“You would know,” he says and she takes a long draw from her mug.

“I would.”

“So tell me Brosca, what did I get wrong?” she raises a brow at his words.

“Who says I object to your creative freedoms? And it’s Sigyn.”

He shrugs, “Humor me.”

“Well, as I said I never took the High Lord of Farts with me.” She says the dwarven title smoothly and Varric almost chokes on his tea as he lets out a snort of laughter.

“Wait, you named your mabari—?” And her shrug and nod, he laughs again.

“He farted a lot.” she says with a roll of her eyes, “Do you want the story?”

“Yes, of course,” he says and Sigyn clears her throat.

 

  

Dust Town was just as bad as she had remembered, if not worse.  The people looked a bit more gaunt and the wear to the buildings was greater than what she expected for only being gone for a couple of months.  Sigyn is well aware of the incredible silence of her companions and she wishes again that they had heeded her warning and stayed at the inn they had managed to secure despite her brand status.  She had told them her world wasn’t pretty, hopefully, now they would take her words at face value.

She is drawn out of her thoughts as she scans the buildings for, well, anything, by the call of her name.  She looks around frantically until the voice calls again, “Sigyn, down here.”  

She’s sitting near a fire and she looks horrid, “Nadezhda…” Sigyn rushes to her and can’t help but notice that Nadezhda makes no move towards her.  She sinks down next to the older woman and smiles as she cups her face.

Nadezhda rubs a thumb over Sigyn’s brand and Sigyn kisses the inside of her wrist.  “It is you.  Ancestors’ beards, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”  She’s surprised at how her breath suddenly hitches as Nadezhda inspects her.  “Just look at you!” One of her hands strokes down her arm to pinch lightly at the layer of fat Sigyn has gained since she went to the surface.

“Nadezhda, what happened? You shouldn’t—”  something is wrong.  Nadezhda may have been one of the older dwarves in Dust Town, but she was one of the few who had overall respect.  The Carta employed her, sure, but that was more a formality than anything else and the rest of the community came to her when they had the need of her knowledge.  It was Nadezhda who had helped Sigyn heal after she had lost her finger, she helped the children whose brands had been newly applied.  She has lost too much weight for Sigyn to think that anything but that something is wrong.

Nadezhda sighs and rests her forehead again Sigyn’s, “City guard.  Wrecked my knees and made me kneel in— they got infected.  I’m not walking so good.”

“And the Carta didn’t protect you?” she asks sharply, pulling back to look at Nadezhda with concern.

“Jarvia changed everything.”  Nadezhda then seems to notice her two human companions, “Brosca, why are there humans here?”

“I haven’t been wandering the surface alone.”

“Sun touched fool,” Nadezhda says, but the tone is still fond.  “But why are you back, I heard they’d kill you.  If not the castes, Jarvia wants you dead.”

“Harrowmont wants me to kill Jarvia, they—”

“You can’t.” Nadezhda cuts across, withdrawing from Sigyn.

“I know.” Brosca states and then she taps her brand once, “But I need to convince him I did.”

“Why?”

“If it’s not me, he’ll get someone else who will kill us,” she says and Nadezhda nods in comprehension.

“Talk to Leske, he’s still with them.” Sigyn frowns and gently shakes her head.

“I know.  I should have— where is he? He have the same hunting ground?”

 

 

“Wait, who is Leske?” he can’t help himself, he knows that tone of voice well enough to know that there’s something more.  Sigyn smiles wistfully and shakes her head.

“A damn good thief and my partner before I was a warden.  Your unnamed other dwarf you mentioned when comparing my provings,” she says and takes a sip of her tea.  Varric gets confirmation that there is more when her fingers resume their tapping.

“He was still—”

“Most brands are.” She says flatly, “Do you want the story or do you want a character portrait?”  He gestures and she clears her throat before she continues.

  

 

Sigyn manages to persuade Alistair and Wynne to go back to the inn because, as she rightly points out, they really stick out.  If it’s because they won’t stop looking at her with a certain level of what feels like pity in their gaze, that’s hers alone to know.  Once she bids them farewell, she makes starts the laborious task of vanishing.  It’s easier to blend into a crowd on the surface, it’s her status as a dwarf that marks her as other, not her brand, and that makes her easier to forget.  But despite the time passed, she still remembers how to walk and where to duck to escape people’s notice.

By the time she is pulling herself up into their old hideouts, Sigyn is sure the only possible person who could have seen her is Leske.  It’s just as dingy as she remembers, but she smiles fondly at the worn walls.  They had stolen happier moments here and it was one of the few places they had felt comfortable to shed Brosca and Leske and just be themselves.  She sits down and waits for him to arrive.

It’s a while before he arrives and she dozes off.  Despite having Alistair as a warm and solid bed companion, she hasn’t been sleeping well.  When she wakes with a sudden inhale of breath and a hand going to check her daggers, she isn’t surprised that she is more comfortable in some small cave than in the inn that had begrudgingly let her stay.  When she registers who is standing silently at the entrance to the cave, however, she removes her hand and breathes his name.

“Damn Sigyn, the surface treated you well,” he says although his voice is strained.

Sigyn stands and crosses to him.  She holds out her arm and tentatively he reaches out and clasps it.  She grabs his arm back, his sturdy muscle under her fingers a reminder of his resilience.  But Jarvia’s influence is also written on his body.  Leske’s eyes are a bit more tired, his posture is a bit tenser, and a new ring hugs a nostril.  She tugs him to her, cupping his face with her other hand, her four fingers resting against his branded cheek.  He rests his forehead against her and she smiles.  For a moment, there is her Leske, breathing her air and whole.

Her heart leaps to her throat and she chokes on her words.  When he withdraws to look at her, Sigyn’s heart quavers.  “Why are you back here?”

“Grey warden shit.”

“Ancestor’s balls,” he says and she laughs.  “You really made it, didn’t you?”

She frowns, “Not quite, need to end the blight first.”

Leske gives her a look and she shrugs, “Why did you come here with humans though? Dust Town won’t shut up.”

“They were worried; couldn’t shake them.” she replies, “And they are friends.”

“And the golem?”

“Didn’t come to Dust Town.”

“No, but all of Orzammar is shitting themselves.”

“Showing surfacers what being a brand really is, I— Shale doesn’t care so long as there aren’t pigeons.”  At his blank look, she says, “Flying animal that shits everywhere.”

“Ah.” He says, “Still you couldn’t be any less obvious?”

“Most dwarva in Orzammar want me dead for some reason or another, it’s pointless to try to hide.”

“Not your usual style.” She shrugs, “But what are you doing here? This is Carta territory.”

“I need to talk with Jarvia.”

“No.,” he says bluntly.  “You’ve had some bad ideas, but this?”

“It’s better than what Harrowmont wants me to do,” she retorts.

“Which is?”

“Wipe the Carta out.”

“Fuck a nug and call it an ancestor, you’re shitting me.” He groans.

“I wish.” Sigyn says, “Let me buy you a drink.”  He scoffs.  She rolls her eyes and continues, “I’ve made a big enough scene that Jarvia’s going to know we met regardless.  And I’ve brought enough tall folk that, while it infuriates them, the innkeeper has been forced to serve at least me.”

“And Brosca and Leske are a force to be reckoned with,” he says with a grin, but his words sound hollow.

“Exactly, salroka.”  He motions for her to follow and they get on their way out of Dust Town.

“Who sodding let you in their doors then?” Leske asks.

“We’ve never gone there, but the place wanted two humans’ coin and wasn’t fool enough to challenge Alistair and his high opinion of me.” Sigyn shrugs.

“How high of an opinion does this Alistair have of you to convince the higher castes?”

She smiles fondly and says “You would think I was taller than him.”

Leske laughs at that and shakes his head.  It makes him sound like himself.  “Really?” She nods, “Almost as high of an opinion as you have of yourself, then.”

“He’s quite tall.” His expression doesn’t change and she sighs.

“How’s—?” she starts but Leske shakes his head.

“Not here, Jarvia will think we’re trying to dodge her.” She nods in understanding.  Instead of asking the questions she so desperately wants to ask him, she tells him about the surface and sunshine and dogs.  And she can tell that his smile is sad.

There’s a request on the tip of her tongue, but she’d already asked once and what she has in pride, he has in stubbornness.  It made him sturdy, like how hers had made her reliable, and given the chance, she could have fallen in love with his sturdiness.  Stone, maybe she had a long time ago, but instead of asking, she swallows the ask and tries her best to explain the seasons and the rain.

“You’re shitting me, it just falls from the sky?”

“I cried the first time.  Alistair was worried I was scared, but…” she looks pensive, “Even the worst of them have it better than us.”

“You really have been sun-touched.” he scoffs.  “If it can make water fall, what makes it think that it won’t—”

“It hasn’t.” Sigyn cuts across him.

“The sky could swallow you whole.” he insists.

“So could a darkspawn.”

“And you have put yourself in the path of both!”  There is a tense moment and then they both smile.  “Stone, salroka, I missed you.”

She smiles and he punches her shoulder.

When they arrive, they are greeted with the usual threats and disdain, but despite the harsh words from the owner they are allowed in.  Although who is going to argue with the Brosca and Leske, especially when her coin is good, is perhaps the better question.  Still, the owner sniffs and comments “probably stolen” when Sigyn hands them a few coppers.

Then they sit together and talk.  Hands and mouths talk over each other, interrupting and exclaiming, as they just talk.  They’ve changed, that much is evident, he’d more gaunt and her brown skin is darker than would ever be possible with just the light from the magma.  But also nothing has changed, their words still trade friendly barbs and it’s so easy to fall back into their old roles.  Sarcastic, sly, and snarky as they sit in a corner and watch the rest of the world.

They are laughing together when Alistair arrives.  He towers over everyone and looks rather sheepish about it.  He scans the room and when he sees her, Alistair smiles.  She can’t help but smile back at him.  When he gets to their corner, he looks a bit awkward until Sigyn reaches out and taps his arm.  Under her touch, he relaxes.

“Leske, Alistair, Alistiar—”

“Stone Brosca, he might actually be taller than your pride.” Leske says incredulously and Sigyn laughs again.

“I told you.”

“I’ve missed something.  May I?” Alistair says and gestures to the bench next to her.  After she nods, he sits down.  “You’re Leske.”

“Yeah, she mention me?” It’s a subtle thing, but Sigyn can tell Leske is a bit nervous about the answer.

“A few times.” Alistair nods, “But she’s quiet.”

“That’s a word for her,” he says.  Sigyn rolls her eyes and Alistair taps her hand.  She cocks her head and pinches two fingers together before nodding.  Alistair smiles and presses a kiss to her cheek.  Leske raises an eyebrow and Sigyn shrugs.

 

 

“But you and Leske had been—” He can’t help himself.

“I never said that,” Sigyn says sharply.

“You didn’t need to.  I’m a storyteller.” Varric says with a grin.

An expression crosses her face that he can’t read and then she smirks.  “Fascinating.”

“What’s meant by that Brosca?”  Her smirk turns into a private smile, but she doesn’t answer his question.

 

  

“Brosca, no.”

“Leske, it’s the only way.  The blight will ruin the surface and the high born fucks will not help unless the Carta is gone.”

“The surface never cared about us.” He lets out an angry huff of air, “Not about Orzammar, not about dwarva, and certainly not about brands.”

“But dusters need the Carta to survive and the Carta needs the surface to survive.  Ancestor’s tits, Orzammar needs the Carta to survive.” she retorts.  They’d done such a good job of avoiding this topic, but the bells are signaling that it is growing late.

“And you want me to persuade her to, what? Let one sky-headed dwarf, two humans, and a golem into the compound?”

“Yes.”

“Not going to work.”

“And if it’s just me?” she asks.

“Sigyn, no.”

“Alistair, this is not up for debate.”

“But—”

“Leske, if it was just me, would she be willing?” Sigyn presses.

Leske looks thoughtful and then his expression darkens.  “Maybe.”

“All I need is one bell cycle,” she says.

“Meet me at the alcove at eight bells.  I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

The tension in Sigyn’s shoulders loosens a bit.  “Thank you.”

“But Brosca, you aren’t Carta,” he says, “Not anymore.”  She purses her lips and nods once.  There is a quiet moment where they just look at each other, then Leske stands.

“I’ll see you later, salroka,” he says and Sigyn takes his hand and squeezes it.  Then he leaves.

She watches him leave and sighs.  She’s so tired.  “Sigyn, you can’t go alone.”

“I can and I will, Alistair.  This is too important.” This is not a conversation she wants to be having right now.

  

 

“He tried to stop you?” Varric asks.

“Yes.” she frowns, “Wonder how things would have gone differently had I listened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Leske…” she toys with her lip piercing for a few seconds as she ponders her words.  “There is no honor among thieves.”

 

 

It takes Sigyn longer than she would like to admit to work up the courage to return to the pocket of dust town that held her childhood home.  She hadn’t expected for the meeting place to be set there.  But she also had hardly expected Jarvia to play fair.

There isn’t any need to knock on her own door, the worn latch provides feeble protection should anyone decide they wanted what was inside.  Leske had once offered to find a better lock, so they could feel safer in their own home.  At that point, however, Brosca was known well enough that it would be a fool’s errand to try to rob their house.  Even if it was just her mother home, there was an understanding that Brosca the younger would find you.

All she has to do is open the door.  What she wouldn’t give for Alistair right now.  Or Zevran who might understand just how scared she is right now.  Stone, even her dog to just be a silent guardian would be a blessing.  But Sigyn is alone.

The door swings open with its usual creak and she steps inside.  She takes a deep breath and is immediately hit from behind by something blunt.  The dust of a familiar floor meets her face, she rolls over, avoids the plunge of a dagger.

Brosca scrambles back, reaches underneath the filthy mat she used to call her bed, hands finding worn metal.  Somewhere in the very back of her mind, she vaguely registers that no one has looted her house, or if they have, they weren’t thorough, but there are more pressing matters.  She draws out the rusty dagger, the blade is loose but the grip is smooth from use.

Brosca is outnumbered three to one, but there are few places she knows as well as her own home.  It’s easy to roll under her old table for some cover, kick the stool her mother had spent countless hours sitting on in a drunken stupor into an assailant, pull herself onto her feet and then pitch the table into the dwarf who had just recovered from being hit with the stool.  Stepping onto the table that now lay on the one dwarf, she throws herself bodily at the younger of the two remaining dwarves.

She gets within his guard and shoves the blade into his shoulder, not lethal but enough to give him pause.  Brosca then grabs one of his arms and pulls him across her, using him as a shield for the swing of an ax that lodges itself into his ribs.

“Stop!” the dwarf who had wielded ax barks out.  “Ancestor’s beards, stop.”

Brosca pulls the dagger from the man’s shoulder and drops him.  The dwarf who had called out makes no move to protect herself as Brosca presses her dagger to her throat.

“The fuck you doing here?”

“Look, we were told to come here and kill you.  Should be easy money, you wouldn’t have weapons.  Didn’t fucking know you were Brosca.  Wouldn’t have taken his money if we did.”

“His money?” she hisses.

“Yeah, Jarvia’s second.”  Brosca feels all the fight leave her.

“Leske…” Sigyn murmurs to herself.

“Yeah, I guess.”  she stammers.  “Look, let us go and it’ll be like it never happened.”

Brosca presses her blade firmly into the dwarf’s throat.  “No.  I need some information first.”

“A-a-anything.  Just, please!! I don’t know if the kid’ll make it if we don’t get him to Nadezdah soon.”

The conversation is short, they don’t know why Leske hired them, but no Jarvia hasn’t moved bases.  She has, however, put better security on the place; Sigyn will need “a finger bone token?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”  she demands.  The dwarf very slowly reaches into a pouch and draws out a small token out of what is very clearly dwarven bone.  Sigyn pockets it.  “Go.  Get him help and tell Jarvia, I’m on my way.”

The woman stammers her thanks and helps pull the younger dwarf to his feet, leaving the one under the table to fend for himself.  Sigyn is shaking, but there is only one thing to do.  If Leske won’t help her broker peace, then she has no hope of getting to Jarvia peacefully.

Living in one place for so long means there is a lot of time to learn all its secrets.  There is a loose stone near the long cold hearth that Rica and Sigyn used to hide things in from their mother.  When she is finally alone she pulls it out, most of the items she had left are still there.  Rica must have taken the rest when she had moved, but the blade is there.

It isn’t a very long knife, nor is it the sharpest blade, but it has enough of both qualities to be deadly and not the kind or quick sort of deadly.  It is meant to scar, the abnormalities of the blade making it unlikely to leave a clean cut.  Sigyn knows just how much a blade like this hurts, it was a blade like this that had removed her finger and a blade like this that marked her as Carta on her upper arm.

She is well aware of what this blade is going to do today.  There are only two possibilities.

 

 

“That’s fatalistic.” Varric comments.

“That’s going against the Carta,” she replies bluntly, “In fucking Dust Town.”

When he nods in comprehension, Sigyn turns on her stool and leans on the counter to give him a bemused look.  “I lived if that’s what you are worried about.”

“Way to ruin the ending,” he says dryly.

She merely laughs in response, “Then I won’t bother telling you about the archdemon.  I’m sure that’s already been ruined for you too.” 

“Many times.  I’ve definitely ruined the ending for other people as well.” Varric replies, turning on his stool too so he can rest his back against the bar counter and watch the room.  The evening is winding down, though there is still a game of cards being played at one table and a small group of people drinking their probable sorrows away.  There is also a pile of dogs and near the hearth, a large mabari is being used as a pillow by a young boy clutching a puppy to his chest.

“I’m not much of a storyteller; your creative freedoms are appreciated.”

 

 

Nadezdah is helping the boy she had just hurt when Sigyn arrives.  He flinches when he sees her coming, but Sigyn is past caring.

“Did you know?” she asks.

“No, Sigyn, I knew Leske was in her pocket, but not about this.” Nadezdah doesn’t look up from her careful stitching.  The boy is greying from blood loss; when this is over maybe she can ask Wynne to— if she isn’t trying to stitch one of them back together.

“Right.  You—” Brosca points at the man who had been pinned under her table.  “You use that house we were just in, get it set so Nadezdah can have a place to help folks.”

“This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“No, it’s not.”  Sigyn agrees.

“It’s pride.”

“Maybe.  And it’s the only option I’ve been left.  I’ll see you, salroka.”

“Hopefully,”  Sigyn hears Nadezdah murmur as she leaves.

Alistair and Wynne react about as well as she thought.  But they are human and Sigyn Brosca cannot change her course now.  Thankfully Shale, beautiful, tall, indifferent Shale will come with her without wanting or needing to understand her reasons.

She’s strapping on her armor, the jagged blade lying on the bed as Alistair and Wynne try to reason with her.  “You’re just going to go against the entire Carta.”

“Yes, Alistair.”  she tightens her leather breast plate.

“And you think they are just going to—?”

“I don’t think anything.  They will either get out of my way or I will make them get out of my way.”  Her daggers feel like a dead weight as she straps them on.  She pauses over her bow, no, this is personal.  The knife gets tucked into her belt.

“You’re bleeding.” Wynne is countering, “At least let me—”

“No.” she side steps Wynne’s reach, well aware of the dull throb at the base of her skull.  “I am challenging Jarvia for her carta.  Come with me or don’t, but I do not have time to argue this.”

“Is there another way?”

“There was.  Pity Leske didn’t manage to kill me,”  she says over her shoulder as turns to leave.

“Sigyn, wait just long enough for me to put on my armor.”  Very distantly Sigyn feels her heart flutter.  She bites her lip, but even though Wynne looks very displeased, they both ready themselves.  It shouldn’t be a fight for them, just for her, but Jarvia and, she supposes, Leske, seem to be willing to break each tradition of the Carta.

“Oh good.  They decided to accompany it,” is all Shale says when they are finally leaving to return to Dust Town.  Where usually Dust Town is lined with brands hoping for the charity of others, the district is empty.  The children too old to be cute enough to beg but too young to be taken in by the Carta who usually can be seen playing or rooting around for stray nugs seem to have been sequestered into homes.

The doors are solid stone, a remnant of Dust Town when it was supposedly a quarter for higher castes who knows how many hundreds of years ago, but there are new scratches in the stone where a slot for a bone token has been carved.

There is only a moment where she wonders if maybe the bone she puts in is her own, but then there is a click and the door is pushed open.  The dwarf on the other side says nothing, his eyes wide with fear as they pass through.

“Leave,” is all Sigyn says to him and he bolts.  Her feet remember the way and with each step her chest tightens.  By the time they are passing the storerooms, she has to lean against as wall just to try to breathe.

“Sigyn?” Alistair asks, pausing as he reaches to touch her.  She nods her head and he places a hand on her cheek.  “You don’t have—”

“Please don’t say that.  I do,” she says, pressing her forehead against his breastplate.

“It won’t be alone.” Shale comments.  “Even if it doesn’t want me to crush the Jarvia.”  Sigyn’s smile is thin at that comment, but slowly she is able to get enough air into her lungs that she doesn’t feel quite so light headed.

“Do you want to know why I have to do this?”  she asks, pulling away from Alistair to push open one of the storeroom doors.  It’s dimly lit, but as she waits for Alistair and Wynne to follow her, she finds one of the rarely lit torches.

“Can you hear that?” she asks as she finds the small piece of flint and old nail to light it.

“No, I don’t—”  Wynne then goes quiet and Sigyn holds up the now lit torch.

“Is that?” Alistair starts to which Sigyn nods and leads them further into the room.  The flame does little to light the entire cavern, it’s too large of a room, but it glints off of the surface below that is producing the gentle whisper that is so commonplace above.  “Water.”

“Yes.  A lot of it.” she confirms.  “If the histories we’ve passed down are true, there was a drought above for many years and Orzammar felt it the hardest.  Those not important or cunning enough to get water died.  But brands have always needed to be smart, so we took over the dying parts of the city.  When the water came back, those with castes wanted Dust Town back, wanted these back, but we’ve held on with everything we have.”

She turns away from the underground lake.  “I will not let the Carta be slaughtered and damn us all to a faster death.”

With that, they resume their journey through the base.  She’s still tense, but at least she can breathe fairly well.  Despite the fact that Wynne and Alistair have nothing to say, Sigyn can feel that they understand a bit more.  A few dwarves challenge them, but they aren’t foolish enough to ignore that she is that Brosca and she has fresh blood smeared on her, or maybe they simply do not wish to fight with Shale. 

 

 

“Why is that?” Varric asks and Sigyn chokes on her drink.  She searches his face and looks kind of amazed.

“You’re really asking… surfacers,” she says to herself softly.  Sigyn takes another drink, her voice is starting to sound tired.  “Golems are dwarva and they were made to be protectors of dwarva.  We don’t have the many gods of the Elvhen or Andraste and her army, we aren’t that holy.  But to go against a fellow dwarf who gave up their life to protect our people?”

She shakes her head.  “I asked Shale to come with me to Orzammar because I knew she would give them pause.  I told Shale as such, but… well, she is kind despite her bluntness and a true protector.  Shale would complain the entire way, but even a surfacer like you could ask her for her help and she’d likely give it.”

“I’ve fought golems before.  The only reason I wasn’t hit as much as the others is I’m a smaller target.”  He counters.  Out of the reactions, he expected Sigyn to take, looking sad wasn’t one of them.

“Becoming a golem was supposed to be voluntary and done by those who were in a position to protect those with less.  Shale was one of those, a great fighter from House Cadash before they got exiled, that’s why we think she kept herself.” she then frowns, “Doesn’t explain Caridin…”

He looks at her expectantly, but she merely shakes her head. “Just musings.  Where was I?”

 

  

They enter the main hall, compared to the Diamond District isn’t much, but it is evident that this hall used to belong to dwarva of a much higher caste with its ornate stone work.  If Sigyn had seemed tense before, it’s suddenly gone as soon as they pass through the doors.  While her stance is hardly relaxed, she looks almost comfortable.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up.” A woman’s voice calls out from the back of the hall and Sigyn smiles.

“I was given the wrong location,” she says conversationally, keeping her breathing even.  “Come out Jarvia, there’s no time for dramatics.”  Suddenly the room is flooded with dwarves bristling with weapons.

The response is smug coming although Jarvia is nowhere to be seen.  “You were saying?”

Sigyn chuckles and shakes her head.  “I have no quarrel with you.  Let me take your necklace, get some blood on it, and so long as you lay low for a few weeks, we can all leave here.”

Jarvia is wearing the least amounts of weapons in the room and it is clear that she is in charge.  Out of everyone, she looks the least gaunt and there’s a hardness to her that doesn’t seem to phase Sigyn at all.  Around her neck is a necklace, heavy and silver, and Sigyn silently curses her past self for not stealing it off of Beraht’s neck when she had killed him.  “And why would I do that.”

“Because if I don’t pretend to kill you, Harrowmont will send someone else who will kill all of us.  Dust Town needs the Carta.  Stone, Orzammar needs the Carta.”

“Always so quiet and smart.  Did we not teach you your lesson last time?”

Sigyn’s fists tighten for a moment and then she forcefully relaxes them.  Nevertheless she continues in her thought as if Jarvia had not interrupted her.  “I’ll keep the necklace as a prize and return it to you, or have someone steal it back to show Harrowmont you still have power.  No harm done; a few weeks of less profits.  But that’s why the Carta has reserves.”

“Shut up, you nug-humping whore! I am the Carta leader, not you! It does what I say.  I do not take orders from you, especially not a sun-touched, cloud-headed thug who had to be disciplined.” Jarvia is now pacing at the other end of the room.

“Beraht never got me to not bite,” Sigyn says softly.

“Yes, but who runs the Carta now, Brosca?” Jarvia snaps back.

Sigyn’s face breaks into a smug grin and she gives a small bow.  “You’re welcome.”  Alistair glances over at her, but she's still calm although why she is so insistent on goading Jarvia must seem strange.

Jarvia, on the other hand, is red in the face, hands balled into fists.  “You never learned you place, Brosca! Thought you could take the Carta from us? We who made sure your mother hand enough moss wine to drown herself in? We who made you sister into who she is? Who you are?” Sigyn looks at her with an unimpressed expression.

“This isn’t about running the Carta, Jarvia, it’s about—” she starts but Jarvia cuts across her.

“This time we’re taking your hand.  Leske?” Now Sigyn tenses ever so slightly as Leske steps forward from behind the wall of armed dwarves towards her.  She ignores Alistair’s aborted movement to stop her and the small gasp from Wynne and walks up to meet him.  There’s a moment where they look at each other and then she holds out her left hand.  He’s shaking as he reaches out for it and wraps a hand around her wrist.

“Leske.”

“Brosca.”

“We both know how this goes.” Leske hangs his head, “Can you do this again?”

“I have to.” Sigyn nods at his response.

She looks up over his shoulder and says loudly but clearly, “You do know Jarvia that I’ll still be better than you, take my hand if that what you want, but I will always be better equipped, more cunning, and more able than you.  Don’t think I didn’t notice how you have… influenced Dust Town.  It’s hard to make a shit hole even worse.”  She scoffs and shakes her head, her stance still loose.  “Take my deal, Jarvia, sod it, take my hand as well, but you cannot win this.”

“I will not take orders from an illiterate, sky headed duster who has lost her stone sense.” Jarvia snarls.

“I don’t need to read to know this won’t work.  No one cares if we are slaughtered.” She’s now leaning forward as if Leske is not there.

“You forget your place! I run this Carta.  I make the decisions.  I take orders from no one.”

“And yet my pride is my undoing.” she says scornfully, “Jarvia, Harrowmont will kill—”

But Jarvia screams over her, “Leske, kill her, then bring me her hand!”

It is then that fear flickers across her face for an instant as sudden silence fills the hall.  Her eyes snap back to Leske and they are still for a moment as they both try to convey something, anything, in this moment.  His mouth tightens and her eyes harden.

He draws his knife but Brosca has wrapped her hand around his wrist, tugging him off balance.  He swipes with his dagger; she’s already moving back.  It’s—

 

 

“You don’t have to tell me this.” Varric cuts across her.  “Sigyn, this is—”

She’s holding onto her mug, both sets of knuckles white as she shakes very slightly.  She doesn’t look at him, instead, she stares resolutely at her now cold beverage.  “Alistair described it as one of the most beautiful and horrifying fights he had ever seen.  We’d fought with each other for years and it was obvious.  It should have been a long fight, we were well matched.”

“What happened?” Varric asks softly as she swallows a few times.

“His foot slipped.  Fucking dusty floors and his foot slipped.  He stumbled and I broke his neck.” Her voice finally cracks on her last sentence.  She tears her gaze away from her mug and looks at him.

“Fuck,” is all Varric can say.

“Yeah.” she chuckles waterily.  Then she looks up at the ceiling and sighs.  “It’s supposed to be a fast way to go.”

“Yeah.” He says and she takes a drink from her mug.

 

 

Brosca lets Leske’s body fall away from her.  She steps over him towards Jarvia.  “All of you who are here to fight, leave now with your life.  I have no quarrel with you.”

Jarvia scoffs although it is a weak sound.  Brosca stops a few paces away from her and draws the knife she had retrieved from her home.  Then she holds out her right arm and draws it across the long scar that runs down it in one slow movement.  Blood seeps out of the wound and Brosca squares her shoulders.  “Now Jarvia, take my deal or bring me down.”

Jarvia barks a word as she takes several steps away from her and some of the dwarves attack.  Behind her, Brosca can vaguely hear the sounds of fighting going on, but it seems like most are respecting Brosca’s challenge.  She follows Jarvia who turns to run.

“Enough!” she yells over the clatter.  It stops.  “Jarvia, take my challenge and fight me.  Do not hide behind others and let them die for you.”

“You aren’t worth my time,” Jarvia replies, but her bluff has been called.

“Alright,” Brosca says and hurls the still bloodied knife.  It catches her solidly in the abdomen and Jarvia stumbles until her back hits a pillar.  Brosca advances, blood dripping down her arm.  “You cannot win.  Yield.”

“Never! Kill her!” But no one moves to attack, instead, all are focused on the two women.  Jarvia screams, draws the blade out of her flesh, and attacks.  Brosca dodges her swipes until she finds an opening.  She steps into Jarvia’s space and grapples the knife from her, the blood on her hands making the grip slick.  She then she’s pressing the attack and Jarvia is struggling to avoid the blade.  It’s brutal but eventually, she pins Jarvia against a wall and presses the knife against her neck.

“You try my patience.” Brosca’s voice is cold.

“You will not take the Carta from me.” Jarvia snarls back as the blade digs into her throat.

“I don’t want the Carta.”

“Liar.  You had your eyes on it.  Beraht knew.  Why do you think he took your finger? I knew.  Why do you think I took Leske?” She spits.  Brosca doesn’t move, merely pushes the blade a bit harder against her flesh.

“I would have run a better Carta.  Me leading, Rica spying, Leske stealing; my Carta would have been powerful.” Brosca says conversationally, leaning forward to speak directly into Jarvia’s ear.  “I don’t want the Carta.”

She slices her throat.

As Jarvia gurgles and grabs at her neck, Brosca pulls the necklace off of her.  Jarvia grabs her arm, their blood smearing together, and then she falls down.  Brosca bends down and whispers something to the dying woman before turning to face the rest of the room.

“Anyone want to fight me to take her place?” she asks the assembled people.  A few dwarves shuffle, but she is a truly frightening image as her blood oozes down her arm, Jarvia’s splattered across her armor.  When no one makes a move, she shoves the knife into her belt.

“Go home to your family.  Come back in eight bells and get your new orders.” the command is tired, but the hall immediately empties until all that is left are a few dazed dwarves who had the misfortune of trying to attack Shale, the slowly dying Jarvia, the rapidly cooling body of Leske, her companions, and Brosca.  There is silence until Jarvia takes one final shuddering breath and goes still.

Sigyn stumbles forward and Alistair rushes to her.  He catches her before she falls and he helps her sit.  “Sigyn?”

She’s pale and her hands are shaking.  The world is oddly distant despite the feeling of warm blood on her arm.  Sigyn looks up at Alistair and then leans against him.  “Stone, we’d talked about this, if the Carta ever wanted more than just my finger— I didn’t— He should have— we— Leske…”

She gasping, unable to pull enough air into her lungs.  “Sigyn, stay with me.” he runs a hand through her hair.

“I’m here, just, ancestor’s tits, I can’t—”  she takes a few shaky breaths, fighting back a panicked laugh.  They’ve been here before.  He’s held her like this before as she fought for air, but this time it’s not that someone had choked her, there’s just not enough and too much air in the room.  There should be another pair of lungs breathing this air, maybe then her’s would work a bit better.  She’s vaguely aware of Wynne asking her questions about her environment, trying to snap her into reality.

Instead, she catches Alistair’s face between her hands and looks at him.  She can’t tell Wynne about this room, there are too many ghosts of them lurking behind every corner, too many memories of them being told to work together, in that small nook they had once— it was a quick fumble in the low light but it had been on her terms.

Alistair holds no such ghosts.

As she looks at him, trying to come back into her body fully, there are only two things she can think: Stone, he’s lovely and “I now lead a Carta.”

 

 

“Wait, just fucking like that?” Varric asks unable to stop himself.

Sigyn gives him a look and nods.  “I publicly challenged her leadership and had I lost I would have forfeited my life.”

“And everyone else accepted it?”

“Would you want to fight me after that?” she asks flatly.

He looks at her, her missing finger, the wealth of jewelry on her face, at the spot at her upper arm where two scars mark her as Carta and shakes his head.  “I reckon I wouldn’t want to fight you at any point.”

“Flatterer.”

“I only get paid to write pretty words, not speak them.”

“I’m well aware.”

“So what happens then Sigyn? You do dual roles of Carta leader and Grey Warden?” he asks skeptically.

“More or less, let’s not pretend one can’t balance leading a spy network, writing novels, interfacing with a merchant’s guild, and going on adventures.” she says with a wry smile.  “Comparatively, my roles are easy to balance.” Varric gives her another look, he has never included information about the merchant’s guild and his ragtag band of spies in any of his books.

“I see.  Whoever manages that many things must be quite talented,” he says as if they aren’t discussing him.

“And handsome, one should think,” she says smoothly and takes a sip of her cold tea.

“Is that so?” he asks.

“I have my sources,” Sigyn says.

“Noted.”  Varric going to have to figure out how she knows the rest as the Carta is not known for their espionage work, but for now, he can ignore it.  “But how does the Commander of the Grey also work for the Carta?”

“Grey Wardens don’t do politics, Carta’s not politics.”

“In technicality only.” he counters.  She smiles and shrugs.  “So what happened then?”

“Oh, the rest is boring history.  I go to the deep roads, find a presumed dead paragon or two, return and crown that idiot Harrowmont.”

“Such a high opinion,” Varric comments.

“I’m a brand,” she says, “The higher castes can— well…”

“Aren’t you —?”

“In technicality only,” she says, “Brand.”

There is a moment where she takes a drink and he frowns, but then he notices out of the corner of his eye that human man with his monstrosity of a beard.  He’s been glancing at them all night and, as Varric watches, he finishes his drink and starts to make his way over.  Sigyn lets out a short, three note, whistle, looking at the bottom of her mug contemplatively.

He’s unsure if he should mention the man coming their way, but a smirk is tugging at Sigyn’s lips and this feels like a situation to watch.  The human lurches up to them, “Now who the fuck do you think you are, dwarf? Knowing so much about my family or ancestors or whatever.”

She doesn’t look at him, but merely puts down her mug and lowers one hand to her side.  “Do you know who I am?”

“No, that’s why I’m asking?” his words are slurred and he takes a step into her space.  Both the man and Varric are startled when there is a growl from below them.

Now Brosca turns, she leans forward so their faces are close.  “Good.  Keep it that way.”  His attentions are torn, flicking between looking at the mabari that is standing next to her and Brosca herself.  Varric does not envy him as the beast growls again, this time louder.

The man mumbles something and takes one more step forward.  The mabari barks, Brosca raises an eyebrow, and a hush falls over the tavern.  He stumbles away, a string of what must be colorful curses if they were any less slurred coming from him.  Brosca watches him until he leaves and Varric notices her lowered hand.  She hadn’t gone for the dagger he had spotted underneath her shirt, but instead, she was holding a hand sign that the mabari was watching intently.

When the door slams shut behind the man and his horrendous beard, Sigyn finally moves and life returns to the tavern.  She scratches the dog behind his ears and he looks up at her with a happy expression.  She sighs and turns to him, “What were we talking about?”

“Technicalities.”  Varric says, “That wasn’t how I expected you to act.”

“I’m more trouble than he’s worth.” she kisses the mabari on his head and she turns back to Varric.  “Oh, this is the Arl of Bad Decisions, the High Lord of Farts is upstairs by the fire.”

He snorts at the title but holds out his hand for the mabari to sniff.  “Is it a warden thing to name your animals formal titles? Anders had Ser Pounce-A-Lot.”  It’s been a few months since Anders died and his name still comes out slightly choked.

“Just the wardens at Amaranthine, my fault.” Sigyn smiles.  “He thought the High Lord’s name was funny, funnier because it annoyed Nathaniel.  Then, the Arl decided to try to climb a tree and broke his leg.  Velanna named Keeper Adria because we couldn't find her original name.”

She lists a few more formal titles and the reasoning behind them, each one equally as bizarre as the last until she concludes with, “And Paragon Nyswin was made as such because she had a litter of kittens all of whom became very good mousers.”

Varric listens with amusements as the Arl rests his head against Sigyn’s thigh, but something doesn’t line up with what he had been told.  “These aren’t all mabari’s?”

“No?”

“Huh.” she looks perplexed at his expression.  “Even cats?”

“Yes.  Paragon Nyswin,  Ser Pounce-A-Lot, and Arlessa Arlise’el are and were much-loved cats.  We also have horses, rabbits, bears, deer, a docile badger.  Alistair and Varel are too nice for the most part.  Why?”

“A bear? Like the fucking legends about you say?” Sigyn nods and flushes,  “Oh.  Anders said you made him get rid of Ser Pounce-A-Lot.” He had.  When pressed he had just claimed that the wardens were dog people, just another complaint in a long list Anders had had.

“Me? Bear taming, me?” Varric wasn’t expecting Sigyn to sound so distressed.  “Did he— what? Me?”

“Ser Pounce-A-Lot made him soft?” even as Varric says it, the explanation Anders had given falls flat with just how content the Arl and Sigyn look with each other.  “It’s why he left.”

Sigyn deflates, leaning forward so she can press her head against the Arl’s forehead.She looks defeated with her eyes closed.

“Who was Anders when you knew him?” she asks so softly Varric barely understands him.

He lets out a sigh, “That’s a fucking question.I don’t think we ever got to know the Anders you knew.He and Justice were entwined in ways we could never understand until…”

Sigyn turns her head so she can rust her cheek on the Arl and look at Varric, the position can't be comfortable.“He used to be bright and bitter.”She inhales deeply and then sits up, “Come to my room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, the length makes up for the delay. As always, I have dysgraphia and words sometimes rearrange themselves. I proofread quite a lot, but I will probably miss some things. Feel free to (nicely) let me know if something makes no sense or just is a plain ol' typo!
> 
> Notes:
> 
> \- Killing the Carta felt wrong. Totally and utterly wrong. Especially for the casteless, it's a legitimate means of survival. I feel like Brosca (and Tabris) would know this.  
> \- If you need more info on Sigyn and the Carta and you haven't read Quantify, go give that a read as it talks about her life before the wardens.  
> \- This is probably the bossiest Sigyn has been, but also this is the most personal and private stress she's had to deal with.  
> \- Please talk to me about how much of a dystopia Orzammar is and how little depth Bioware gives this area.  
> \- Golems are Jewish creatures and are super interesting!! Especially with stories like the Golem of Prague, golems are protectors in times of extreme anti-semitic attacks and pogroms. There is a longer conversation about how messed up that you have to option to use CASTELESS to make golems as they would, given the original origins of golems, be the ones in need of protection. I'm still reading and learning about golems, so more on that later.  
> \- That being said the whole "willingly become golems" is the whole Dragon Age claim that it originally was folks who wanted to protect others.  
> \- (I also still hate killing golems in every dragon age game. It makes me very sad.)  
> \- Yes, I killed Anders. He is easily my least favorite character from the series. More on that in the next chapter. (I haven't finished inquisition, so I have time to hate someone more, but so far no one has compared.)  
> \- Sigyn is a ranger (read Cat if you want to know about the bear) and the silly naming convention was an accident. My cat's middle name is "Fartlord" and then the game provided "Ser Pouce-A-Lot" which means that every animal Sigyn/her wardens name are going to be silly. Except for Nathaniel who calls his dog something very boring and gets mercilessly teased by Sigrun when he starts calling the dog 'Princess' in grumpy affection.  
> \- Me? Add depth to one of like 5 named women dwarves in Origins. Yes. I know Nadezdah in game was a thug, but l am going to use every named woman dwarf I get my gay little hands on for as long and far as they will let me.  
> \- Finally, Sigyn and Varric are unreliable narrators. However, yeah, in my cannon, Sigyn took over the Carta because it was the best option. I have a very precise notion how this works out, but basically, she made Nadezdah her second and then had Nadezdah run it. She shows up every so often to look intimidating and let people fight her for control if they want to.


End file.
